


I Want To Be Consumed

by folie_a_yeux



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Bloodplay, Cannibalism, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_a_yeux/pseuds/folie_a_yeux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, as she licked at the blood and cum mingling in her mouth, she thought looking into his eyes was like staring into the eyes of a wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want To Be Consumed

At first, as she licked at the blood and cum mingling in her mouth, she thought looking into his eyes was like staring into the eyes of a wolf.

Her mother taught her to fear wolves. When she had been younger, before the Hunting Trips began and her place shifted squarely to her father’s side, it had been her mother who told her stories, who fed her morsels of wide eyes and bloodied mouths and red cloaks on dark, dark flowers.

But wolves hunt in packs, and they take what prey they can. The big cats, the leopard and the tiger, select their prey. They stalk it. Toy with it. Love it as they consume it, for giving them the distraction and coating themselves with pheromones that salt the meat. And when a cat hunts, when it stalks its prey, it stalks it alone.

*****

“You’re holding back.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

Abigail Hobbs won’t sit down. She knows that Dr. Lecter wants her to sit, that he’s been willing her to sink back into those overstuffed leather chairs and spill, just like Dr. Bloom did, just like Mr. Crawford did. Just like Will did, before Dr. Lecter began sending him on “personal retreats” and Abigail had no one else to turn to.

She wants to ask Dr. Lecter where Will goes on these retreats, and why he hasn’t called her like he promised.

She doesn’t.

Instead her hands come down on the top of the chair, clenching it, knuckles white, her dark hair swinging forward past her shoulders and obscuring as much of her face as she dares. She darts her eyes to the side, to hide her face but see his, to stare the man she’s tried so hard to think of as Dr. Lecter. Not as the Man On The Phone. As The Man Like Her Father. As The Accomplice.

But she knows how to read faces, well enough to see that his remains unreadable. Dr. Lecter stands by the polished oak desk, wearing a dark blue suit and vest with a deep purple tie, his electric blue shirt and pink pocket square two peacock displays jumping out at her, distracting her from the jutting cheekbones, the weathered yet silky skin, the carefully blank eyes.

He drops his gaze from her for a moment to look down at the book he’s holding, the one he was perusing when she came in. Something in German she thinks, though the only word she could see before his delicate fingers covered the rest was “Selbstmord.”

“The first time we met, Miss Hobbs, your father had just tried to kill you.” His voice is silky, nonchalant, with maybe the barest thread of curiosity. He might be talking about the weather. She might be a new toy on display in a shop.

“The second time I met you, a man accused you of killing his sister. The third time we met, you had killed him.” As his eyes rise to hers, her own meet the leather wrinkles in the chair and hold there.

“You butchered him, Miss Hobbs. And every time after when we’ve met, you’ve told me nothing of these dreams you and Will have bonded over, nothing of what you’ve said and thought and believed. Even with all my efforts to keep you from unnecessary distractions.”

“You’re keeping me away from Will.” Her fingers dig into the chair, the sleeves of her thin blue dress biting her armpits as she tenses forward. She can’t bite the words back any longer. “You’re keeping me from him. Why?”

“Semantics, Miss Hobbs.” She glances up to see muted disapproval in his face. She is ashamed for it. She is ashamed that she cares. “I am keeping him from you. The situation, as you see, is entirely the opposite.”

Then he pauses, and smiles at her. A very small smile, but Abigail devours it nonetheless. She’s appeased him. The knowledge helps keep the panic down, the same panic that always envelops her when he’s nearby. Too much knowledge to hold over her. And far, far too much power.

“Our good Will, he has a way of complicating the issue. Clouding your judgment.”

“And you don’t?” Her face flushes, and she takes a moment to curse the vesicles betraying the tension in her face. She knows enough to realize Dr. Lecter does not appreciate grandiose displays of emotion.

“I am merely helping you down the path you are already following.” Dr. Lecter sets the book down. Before his hand lifts away, two fingertips gently caress the uneven edges of the pages. Abigail shivers. She cannot say why.

He moves, pantherlike, to where she stands behind the chair. He faces her. Tilts his head, just a fraction of an inch. She lets go off the leather, moves around to the front, sits back down.

Dr. Lecter takes the seat opposite her. He leans in, his eyes still infuriatingly unreadable. “Tell me about your dreams, Abigail. Tell me what happens. Tell me why they frighten you.”

“I already told Will.” She keeps her voice measured, calm. The good daughter. The calm patient. The bright child. “I see girls dying.”

“No.” His eyes catch the light of his desk lamp and hold it there, two liquid spheres flickering fire. “Do not lie to me, Miss Hobbs. I will always know when you do.”

“You are frightened by these dreams because you experience them the way you experienced the death of poor Mr. Burrow.” As he leans back, the creases of his suit jacket fold out of themselves like waves.

 “You enjoyed it, Abigail. You liked the power you held over him in that moment. The feeling that nothing could hurt you, that no one would ever hurt you again.”

“No!” The control, that careful knotted control, is gone. She can feel something pressing down on her, some mesh cutting into her body, severing her into parts, robbing her of the whole she’s never had. She can’t move. She can barely breathe.

“I don’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy it!”

“Your word, Miss Hobbs, unfortunately does not count for much.” He’s smiling again now, a few strands of his light brown hair falling and brushing those dagger-like cheeks.

“A penchant for manipulation,” he muses. He doesn’t even need to look at Dr. Bloom’s notes anymore. His thumb rubs lightly against the fingers of his curled right hand. “Displays only enough emotions to prove that she has them. Seems unable to connect to the pain of others –“

“STOP!” Abigail rocks back and forth, back and forth. Her left hand instinctively goes toward her mouth, and she bites down hard.

She’s still a toy, but now it’s like she’s exhibited some fascinating new trick, an Easter Egg hidden in the box. He jerks up and moves toward her swiftly, suddenly, so fast that she bites too hard on her pointer finger, feeling the flesh tear into blood on her teeth.

“Why did you bite your hand, Abigail?” She cannot escape his gaze now. It bores into her, digging through, merciless, unrelenting. “Do you want to consume those feelings, or destroy them?”

Then his hands shoot forward.

They grab her by the wrists, wrenching her arms from where her elbows held them pinned to her sides. In one motion, he lifts her bodily from the chair, holding her with a strength unimaginable until now, straight off the ground so that her feet brush the cold floor below.

The cool ecstasy of terror scrabbles at the back of her throat. She remembers, then, that she knows who Dr. Hannibal Lecter is. That she is one of the few who knows what he is.

She can see the gold in his brown eyes. She can smell the cologne dotting his wrists. And then he leans his head down, takes the bloodied finger into his mouth, and sucks.

Abigail’s head arches back, and a shiver runs from her scalp to the curves of her buttocks and shaking down her thighs. A thrill she’s never felt before, and a warmth, too – a pulsing heat collecting at point where her legs met her stomach.

 _My clit_ , she thinks, almost dreamily, and then, she cannot tell where the words come from, _hot enough to eat. To eat_.

And she wants to be eaten. She can feel that, if only for now, in this moment. She wants to be consumed, torn into and devoured, overcome and overcoming. Her hips jerk forward and buck against his dark blue pants, and her right hand reaches out to grasp the lapel of his jacket, clenching it as she softly moans.

Hannibal sucks. She closes her eyes. She wishes there were a way for all her blood to leave her body through that one finger, to have all her pain and her fear and her rabid, uncontrollable desire surge into him and deliver her from herself.

And she knows he senses it, because he stops. She feels single tear, pregnant and trembling in the corner of her eye. She feels him reach out a finger and take it from her, opens her eyes just in time to see him bring it to those thin, cruel lips, to touch it to that red, red mouth.

“Thank you, Abigail.” She can feel him dissecting her, his eyes moving from her quivering thighs, her taut breasts, slicing her into pieces again, dividing her and conquering. She wants to know if he’s pleased at her reaction, or disgusted by the vulgar way she displayed it.

“You – you didn’t –” She licks her lips. If one of his hands weren’t still holding her wrist, she feels sure she would fall. She is terrified again. She wants to run away. She can’t feel anything but the left wrist still clamped in his fingers. “I wasn’t – ”

“You were.” Hannibal – Dr. Lecter – Hannibal lifts the hand that brought her tear to his lips, cups her cheek, brushes away what moisture the tear left. “I knew, when I saw you writhing there on the floor, your blood pouring onto my innocent Will’s hands. I could smell it on you.”

“You and my good Will, you are… interesting. Special. You thrill in the feel of a life leaving, don’t you?” She flinches, afraid he will dig his thumb in, hurt her like her father did, but he merely strokes her cheek one final time and lowers his hand. “You could understand the beauty I feed on in the dark. If properly trained."

He releases her abruptly, and Abigail is surprised to find her feet are steady. He makes his way to the desk, and she follows him. And if she is surprised when he opens a drawer and pulls out a porcelain bowl and a long, wicked knife, it is nothing to her surprise when he takes off his jacket, lays it carefully over his chair, and then rolls up his left sleeve, dragging the knife slowly across his arm.

She almost says it. He looks at her. She almost stays silent. “What are you doing?”

She’s beginning to think he enjoys her pathetic rebellions. It brings back her anger, her stubbornness again. She is grateful to have the company.

“I will have to be weaker for a night or two. But this will serve.” He takes a roll of gauze from the drawer, wraps it one-handed around his coiled, muscled arm.

 _I want to bite that arm_ , she thinks, again without knowing the source, the thread of that thought to where it unraveled. _I want to dig my teeth in and tear him apart_.

He can see the wolf in her eyes. Can sense the leopard coiling, readying itself to pounce. “It’s alright,” he says. “Come here.”

She approaches the basin, moving carefully between him and the desk, and looks down. So red, the blood within. Not bright or dark or viscous or watery or fake or real. But so _red_.

“Put your hands in, Abigail.” He stands just behind her, his breath tickling the hair on her neck and shuddering down her spine.

Still, that spark of rebellion. Still, that refusal to be completely tamed. “No.”

She feels his hands on her shoulders. She can sense the coiled strength in them, the sensuous anger and the barely unbridled desire. She knows he could push her hands in, if he wanted to. That she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

She also knows that he won’t. That he’s too cruel to make it that easy for her.

“Put your hands in, Abigail.” His hands remain soft on her shoulders, but she hears the bite in his voice. “Put. Your hands in.”

And as she plunges them into the warm, red blood in the basin, as she feels Hannibal’s hands on her shoulders and his chest against her back and his cock press to her buttocks and his blood spilling over her fingers, she feels that warmth shudder through her again. Her hips hit the oaken desk. She lets out one long, shuddering gasp.

Her mother forcing her to kneel in front of the cross, how she dreamed that night of arrows piercing martyrs and woke not in fear but with the reverberations of some ecstatic terror, the artistry of the scene so beautiful and terrible she woke still weeping. The disgust she felt for the boys fumbling at her in the backseats of Toyota station wagons, her clit undisturbed and cold. The disdain that choked her as she toured the endless county fairs and crochet circles and hunting meet her father dragged her to, the places where she could pretend she did not feel as chained to him, as responsible for him, as she always was. The despair as she saw life leave her first kill with such ugliness, the lack of grace with which the deer fell and took everything she coveted with it.

She is no longer afraid. She is no longer passionate. She is beyond it somehow. She is finally, finally whole.

Her hands jerk out of the basin. She brings them to her mouth, eager as an infant thirsting, as a stud rutting against a mare. Her tongue laps the blood, and she turns around, back to Hannibal, as his lifts his hands away and his eyes show, for the first time, the briefest flicker of surprise.

Her bloodied hands ravish his fine linen shirt, roughly unbuttoning the rough vest that covers it. She pushes him back until he hits the wall and feels his hand, warm yet clinical, reach down to the gauzy fabric that covers her clit, press two fingers against it, and lightly pinch.

She moans, one low, agonizing sound, and pushes herself into him, giving him that control again. Her hands scrabble down, dark constellations of red marring the blue of his shirt, and yanks his belt open. She reaches her hand down, unsurprised to find nothing between pant and skin. She takes the hard length of his cock in her tainted hands, pushes the skin in and down in long jerks, feeling him press into her palm as she arches and moves against his tensed and slightly lifted right leg.

And she does not think of him as father/lover or as teacher/seducer but as Hannibal when she feels the orgasm washing over her, when she feels his hot cum splashing onto her wrist, senses one small, almost imperceptible shudder, and hears him let out one hiss of breathe before becoming completely still.

She raises her eyes to his. This time, she knows she can hold them.

He reaches down to where her hand still holds his cock and gently lifts it out. He buckles his belt, eases her off his dampened leg, smooths the creases. He takes out his pocket square and cleans himself before he meets her eyes. His eyes are hungry. He is proud of her. She can tell.

“This is natural, Abigail. As natural as death is.” She does not know if he means the sex, or the blood, or the fact that she has power over him now. Even as he holds so much power over her, power that her father never had.

“I’m not like you.” She knows the words themselves are a defeat.

“I think we both know that is not true.” One delicate hand reaching out. One long finger brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear.

Then he looks down at his ruined clothes, at the blood stiffening and warping his tie and shirt and slacks, and she nearly flinches to see the disapproval she knew was coming.

“You've come a long way, Miss Hobbs,” he says, his voice completely even. He lifts a corner of his shirt and smiles at her. Deadly.

“But if you ever get blood on one of my shirts again…” Her wrist is in his grip again, that same finger lightly caressing the uneven plane of her knuckles. “You know what I am capable of. And I will do it.”


End file.
